Relief
by CuriousFlynn
Summary: *Contains spoilers for Captain America: The Winter Soldier* After the game-changing events of Cap 2, Black Widow has only one mission: find Hawkeye. With S.H.I.E.L.D. [well, you know], and Barton's mission compromised, how will Natasha be able to find him in time?
1. From the Ashes

NATASHA

"Regimes fall every day. I tend not to weep over it, I'm Russian."

I said that, staring at my own reflection in Loki's cell. I meant it. Or at least at the time I thought I did. I've watched coups, seen governments collapse. Hell I've _caused_ a coup d'etat. Twice. But this . . . this is different.

I shouldn't be here. It's too close; it's too soon. If anyone is after me — and it's been what, thrifty-six hours now? I'm sure they are — this is the easiest place to look. I need to disappear, melt into the darkness, retreat into my web, as it were, but I can't bring myself to look away.

Smoke has finally stopped rising from the Triskelion. That doesn't much matter. It'll be months before the other agencies can clear the wreckage. The skeletons of the three helicarriers lie mangled in the water, jutting up from the shattered launch bays like giant shards of glass. I guess that's what they are now, glass. Twisted heaps of glass and steel and secrets, broken and useless and just lying there for all to see. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The huge gash in the side of the Triskelion looms over the wrecks, a hideous cavern in the building. Boulders of concrete line its base; a million rebar fingers ply from within is, trying to claw their way out. The whole scene is mangled and ugly. It hurts. It hurts to see the Triskelion broken, the helicarriers, S.H.I.E.L.D.'S crowning achievement, lying in ruin on the ground. Regimes fall every day. I burnt my allegiance to old mother Russia a long time ago. Not that it doesn't try to haunt me every once in while. And America, well, it chose me more than I chose it. I've been amazed these past few months, these past few days especially, working side by side with Steve. "Captain America." That name would sound silly if it wasn't so true. He embodies every ideal, every dream, things I gave up on a very long time ago. It's inspiring. But it doesn't change the fact that I could envision trading in America too. Not for the highest bidder though, not anymore. I do believe in what I fight for, thanks to Steve and Nick and . . . well, some others. But I've never defined myself as an American. I don't do what I do for the stars and stripes. I do it for S.H.I.E.L.D.

I _did_ it for S.H.I.E.L.D.

Is it gone for good? I highly doubt it. Hydra, S.H.I.E.L.D., they're too big to disappear with one blow, even a blow like this. And S.H.I.E.L.D. is needed. _Something_ is needed. New York proved it. Hydra proved it again. I guess if you're counting, Hydra proved it the first time too. They're the reason Howard Stark founded it in the first place.

Speaking of Stark, I think Tony'd be proud of my performance on Capitol Hill this morning. Of course, that hearing will never come close to the popularity of his, over the Ironman suit. And thank god he's too stubborn and egotistical to turn it over; it would have gone straight to Hydra.

Each of those three sentences crosses my before I can stop them, and I can't help but shake my head. Back when I was undercover at Stark Industries, I never would have imagined myself saying anything remotely of that opinion. So much has happened since then.

Maybe it's that old Stark stubbornness that will bring S.H.I.E.L.D. back. Maybe it'll be Nick. Wherever he's gone, I guarantee you it's not to a beach in Tahiti. The way things have been going these past few years, it'll probably be some kind of crisis. I can't wait.

The waters of the Potomac lap at the dead leaves covering the bank. The breeze picks up, rustling the branches around me. It should be peaceful here, solemn at least, but it's not. Chopper blades cut at the air, bobbing and hovering around the Triskelion like flies above a carcass. Sirens blare and the lights of so many emergency vehicles blink in the distance, as Metro, FBI, CIA, NSA, Homeland Security all vie for the pieces. Not that there's much left to find. It's all out there now. That was no ploy, that was the real deal. 99% of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secrets made public in the blink of an eye. And the 1%? Even I don't know those.

The buzz, the chop, the wail, the whoosh of the plasma torches already dismantling Project Insight, the muted murmur of a voices shouting into megaphones, it's too loud. I need to think. I . . . I haven't felt this way in a long time. A lifetime even. That particular breed of tension in my chest, the heavy weight of a secret anxiety winding itself around my shoulders and up my arms. The last time I felt this way, I was looking down the shaft of Barton's bow. Even after, when I first joined S.H.I.E.L.D., when I wasn't trusted. The Black Widow can belong anywhere, but in order to do that, Natasha Romanoff needs somewhere to belong.

The truth is, I'm not ready for this. It's not like S.H.I.E.L.D. was assigning me to anything innocent, but at least I was doing the kinds of things I do for someone besides myself, and for something beside myself. I don't trust myself to make that kind of call. S.H.I.E.L.D. has helped me start to sleep again, but I'm so afraid that my ledger might pull me back in.

This is one kind of alone I do not like to be.

Alone. That word, that thought keeps echoing in my ear. We're alone, I'm alone, Steve's alone, the Avengers — are we really still calling ourselves that? — are alone. But mostly . . . My hand reaches up to grab at the necklace tucked safely behind the high collar of my leather jacket.

A piece of shrapnel bobs to shore with the next little wave. I can see what's left of the S.H.I.E.L.D. logo etched on its jagged surface. I kick it back into the water. I'm not exactly sentimental. I ignore the fact that the little silver chain in still pinched between my fingers.

All that debris, all that wreckage. And I don't just mean here. S.H.I.E.L.D. reached every corner of the globe, and now it's fallen the whole world over. It'll take an army to even pick up the pieces, let alone repair the damage. But it's one army I can't sign up for right now. I'm a spy, not a soldier. Or so I keep telling myself, though I've increasingly found myself on the front lines. Speaking of, my arm still hurts. My whole body hurts. But I shrug it off. Pain later, focus now.

Steve has his mission, and I'm glad. I hope he finds the Winter Soldier. Bucky. I of all people respect the need to pull someone out before they get swallowed. I can imagine, if anyone can, what it's like to be on the other side. Part of me even wishes I could help, to repay that particular favor and recover someone else believed to be a lost cause, just like I was.

I kick another piece of debris into the churning river, turning my back on the wreckage of the Triskelion and striding the few quick paces to my motorcycle.

But I have a debt of my own, and I have my own mission. One that, even as I nock in the kickstand and turn the key, even as I stood staring on the river bank, even as I said goodbye to Steve and spoke at the hearing, and fought Hydra, indeed from the time I spilled S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secrets, from the moment I even considered the idea, has been weighing on me, clawing at me, so much I can barely breathe.

Several months ago, Clint Barton left on a S.H.I.E.L.D. mission, a deep one. Not even I could know where he was going or what he was up to. Which was fine. He's a big boy, and he had all of S.H.I.E.L.D. to back him up. But S.H.I.E.L.D. is gone. His identity and his mission have been compromised, and there is no one left to pull him out.

No one but me.


	2. Tables

CLINT

Okay, this looks bad. Really . . . really . . . . . . . . . . .

Blackness.

Sound's the first thing to come back. Nothing crazy, just the electric hum of the quiet that lets you know you're probably not dead. And possibly the electric hum of something else. A machine? A lightbulb?

It smells wet. Not wet like an ocean, or a rainstorm. Wet like a basement, like a dungeon, like a well. The dirty, decaying smell of wet on stone. Inside though. No wind.

Where? What?

The buzzing fog in my head starts to thin. The rest of my senses begin to revive. My nerves spark to life like someone flipped a breaker. Ready for the understatement of the year?: Ouch.

It hurts to breathe.

What the hell?

It starts to come back, bit by bit. The island. The tech. The milkshake. The hideous blue glow of Loki's scepter. Ignore that last one. He's just always banging around in my skull these days. Sucks, right?

But back to my current problem. This looks bad. I mean, sure I say that a lot. Granted, bad situations just seem to love me, so it's usually justified. But this? This is BAD. Something happened. Something . . . . Something very, very —

My stupid eyes snap open, before I can stop them. Snap might be generous. My eyes flutter open as far as they will go, which isn't far. Left's a little better than the right, but my eyelashes are still hanging in my view. It's just as well, actually, because the second my lids jump open that little sliver, I'm hit with the yellowish brightness of an incandescent light.

Splotches dance against the inside of my eyelids. Found the lightbulb.

Now that my face muscles are moving I can feel it, the uncomfortable pull on my skin, the nerve endings dancing like needles around my sockets. I must have baseballs for eyes right now, black and blue and swollen almost as far as they'll go. And that's just the beginning.

I cautiously test out a few more muscles on my face. As my lips spread, I can tell they're chapped and split. Sharp pain as I try to scrunch my nose. Probably broken. My jaw is sore, my ribs are on fire. Every breath sends a fresh dagger ripping through my chest. I want to cough. I can feel it rising in my throat so I hold my breath. Desperately, desperately I will the tickle gone. Sad truth is, if I cough now, I might scream. Groan at the very least. And something tells me I'm not going to like it when they find out I'm awake.

I steel my face and assess. Shoulder — burning. Fingers — dislocated. Head — throbbing. Legs — heavy as lead. Feet? Well they feel fine, more or less, but that's not really much of a victory, is it?

And god almighty, each time my chest rises — I'd be okay with blacking out again, but I guess I'm not going to get that lucky.

I have a feeling I'm not the only one who had an unlucky day. I can sense it. That bad thing. The _shift_. Not a spidey sense or any Avengers crap like that. Just the good old-fashioned military kind. Stuff goes down, tables turn, alien gods hijack your brain, I get it. These things happen from time to time.

But this is different. I have never seen a cover go so fast, or a mission blow so suddenly and completely. Something has happened. Something ugly. As I lay there, slumped back and tied to some kind of chair, listening to my wheezy, reluctant breaths as they scream slowly in and out of my chest, a thought crosses my mind. A sudden, crazy thought that for a second scares me more than the pain, more than my injuries, more than whatever, and whoever, is waiting for me on the other side of these walls. What if the world that I left when I started this mission isn't there when (if) I come out? Because that point of sinking dread in my chest tells me it won't be.

I choke down another cough, though this one isn't just a tickle in my dry scratchy throat.

He was right. Again. Always. (Mostly.)

Right, so how this all started. What led me into this hellhole. Who I go hellhole-ing for.

Nick Fury. That's the short answer. (Well, the better you know the man, the more that's actually a long answer.) Anyway . . .

I was sitting in my civilian clothing (a t-shirt, a jacket and a baggy pair of jeans) and my advanced facial disguise (a purple trucker cap) slurping down the second best milkshake in Brooklyn. Why the second best? Because Steve Rodgers, in his infinite benevolence, decided to share the location of the _best_ milkshake in Brooklyn with literally all of S.H.I.E.L.D. I know they're everywhere already, but I don't need fifty guys from the office disturbing me while I enjoy the occasional milkshake. Or turning me in for breaking the nutrition code. Didn't know about that? Yep. It's a thing. I mean S.H.I.E.L.D. can't have its field operatives downing burgers all the time, right? I looked down at the empty burger basket sitting on the checkered booth table in front of me, littered with fries and stained with the ketchup and grease of a meal well done. (Actually medium rare, but . . . . you get it).

I tossed a crumpled napkin in the basket. Not that it much mattered. Ever since New York things have been . . . strange. That napkin toss just now? That was my best shot of the day. Five inches away. Into a hamburger basket. My lips closed around the oversize candy striped straw and took another drag of chocolaty goodness.

'Awesome work man.' 'An Avenger, now that's something.' 'Best in the business, Barton is.' More like benched in the business. I thought things would get better after the hearings. Not a big public thing like Tony had. S.H.I.E.L.D. kept it quiet, like they do. Can't have one of the world's most famous heroes on trial for war crimes just after saving said world. But that's what happened. A formality really. Fury had no more than his usual doubts, so I was never really worried. But the council? And more importantly the guys who count on me to have their backs? They weren't too keen on letting somebody fresh from an Asgardian mind-jacking back into the active ranks of S.H.I.E.L.D. And so I got the bench. I thought it would be better after the tests. Once a bunch of overly smart people proved for good I wasn't crazy. (Which they did, by the way). But that didn't matter. I can't judge. I'm a soldier too. What people do, the way they act, that kind of knowledge can't be created with a file. It's a trust that's got to be earned. I'da loved it if they'd given me a chance to earn it back.

After a few weeks of, 'And me, Sir?' I got sick of all the glances, the 'Hey d'ya think that guy's an alien spy?' type things. The Triskelion didn't want me hanging around, so I made my way back to the center of the world (New York City). Watched Tony rebuild Stark, er, _"Avengers"_ Tower. From the ground, of course. He never actually invited me in. Ran into some track suits with machine guns. Got a dog. Met a girl (Relax, not that kind of girl. The spoiled-rotten-but-the-best-bow-woman-I've-ever-seen kind. But that's really a very different story). You know, normal stuff. It was great, for like a month. It was tolerable for maybe six. Ever since then I'd been itching so badly to get back in. That stuff with Tony happened, and I was waiting for the call. Then that stuff with Thor. Got my Hawkeye suit dry-cleaned and everything, you know, just in case. Eventually S.H.I.E.L.D. started working me back into the system. At what felt like a glacial pace. So there I was, downing milkshakes and burgers in a dumpy little diner in Brooklyn.

The straw slurped loudly as I reached the bottom of the fluted glass. My lips puckered as I sucked up the last few flops of melting ice cream. I starred dejectedly into the bottom of the glass. (Don't worry, this year's seen its fair share of beer. It's just, ice cream is so old-timey and delicious). So I was staring into the little well at the bottom of the glass where a spoon can barely reach and huh? There was something showing through the bottom. I picked up the glass. Nothing underneath but checkers. But yup, the letters were still in the glass. When I started to turn it over, a trickle of melted shake dribbled over the wide scalloped rim. I did the only logical thing, which was to lick it. As I did, my fingers, chilled from holding the glass, felt its flat bottom and, lo and behold, a sticker.

It came off easily in my hand, a little circle of white. New glasses maybe? A price sticker? Flashing it in the cool winter light of the diner window, I could make out a very distinctive and very warped pattern of black lines. If that used to be a barcode, then it's some dishwasher they've got here. That or . . . I rolled my eyes, I had to. It was too good. Wrapping a brown paper napkin around the butt end of a sundae spoon, I wiped the inside clean then slapped the sticker back on. The pattern splayed out across the unique curve of the shake glass. Refraction or some other physics mumbo jumbo wrung out the broken loops and swirls of the sticker, unfolding them to words projected on the glass. Though as soon as I put the sticker gag together, I coulda told you what it was going to say.

YOU HAVE A MISSION.

So I went up to the counter and —

"He's awake," says a voice, jolting me from memory lane. Damn it. A fresh surge of adrenaline floods me, constricting my chest so much that a groan dribbles out of my bloody lips like a door someone forgot to grease.

"Definitely awake," she says again. It's a sweet voice, but not a chittery bird kind of sweet, it's a real voice. One with gravel and weight behind it. Actually, except for the accent, she sounds a little bit like Natasha.

NATASHA! I groan again as another ton of emotional bricks tumble down onto my very sore (have I mentioned that?) chest. Natasha, Natasha! My breathing increases and it burns like there's acid in my lungs. Deep breath. Breathe Barton, breathe. It kills me but I do it. Whatever has happened I have to trust that she came out on top of the table. No one's better than Nat at playing that game. All I can do is trust in her, because —

"Good morning, Mr. Barton," says the not Natasha voice.

"It's" — cough — "Hawkeye." Respect the codename.

"Yes, 'Hawkeye.' It must feel good to hear that name again. To finally have some of the recognition you deserve. You helped save the world after all. And how do they thank you? With psychologists and MRIs and teammates thinking you are, and I quote, "a good soldier broken beyond recognition or recovery." I've had to climb the ranks myself; I know what it's like. And to be sidelined like that after so much work, after so much sacrifice? I can't imagine. Being driven to loitering in pizza houses and downing chocolate milkshakes in Bernadette Park's diner. Your thanks for saving the world. After you broke it of course. Alien mind control. That's a new one, even for us. But don't worry it's currently being investigated. If we get it running before you're dead, we'll even let you have the trial run."

My face goes slack as she's talking. What started as a smug smile melts away into nothingness. The color drains from my face. In my mind, even my bruises have blanched, leaving only a ghostly, sickly white. I clench my fists tight despite the pain just to stop their trembling. My whole hands start to shake instead.

No. No. No. No. This can't . . . That's not . . . That information, it's not possible. Secrets. Those are . . . I had . . . My heart beats faster and faster, crashing against my cheat and threatening to beat right out of place.

WHAT.

HAPPENED?

Whatever I thought, whatever worst case, end of the world, last resort scenario I had been picturing, I was wrong. It's so much worse. The phrase "this is bad" doesn't even cross my mind. All I can see is colors. Colors and memories and secrets swirling around in my brain too quickly to assign words to describe them. No language, no reason, just fear. Primal, irrational panic that sets in when someone comes too near the nest.

It's not her threats, not her vague attempt at mind games that jar me; I've heard it before and I've heard worse.

It's that she's reading directly from my S.H.I.E.L.D. file.

"Who" — cough — "are you?" I manage to croak.

For a second there's silence, but I can hear her smiling.

"Mr. Barton, have you ever heard of a little thing called HYDRA?"

**A/N: Hi everybody! This seemed like a good time to go through some things.**

**First of all, THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU to anyone who has read/is reading/will read/might read/considered reading/ sort of skimmed though that one time this fan fiction! It really does mean a lot to me.**

**Extra thank you to anyone who has followed, favorited or reviewed!**

**The usual disclaimers:**

**I don't own Marvel or any of their characters etc.**

**Any foreign languages that appear in here will come directly from Google translate. Sorry in advance. (If you're familiar with the language in question, feel free to correct me.)**

**This story is not at all related to my other fic "Poor Girl: All We've Got" (You could read it, but this one's better so stay here.)**

**It is entirely related to the MCU. I'll do my best keeping up with Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., depending on what goes down in the last three episodes.**

**It is somewhat related to comics like the currently running **_**Hawkeye**_**, **_**Black Widow **_**and **_**Secret Avengers**_** titles. If you read comics, keep an eye out for the occasional nod to some of them. If you don't, don't sweat it, you'll never notice they're there.**

**I do proofread my chapters but I'm terrible at spotting mistakes in things I've just written. Please forgive the occasional typo, but if it gets absurdly terrible let me know. **

**Reviews are always welcome, as is constructive criticism. I'm trying to improve both my storytelling and writing craft skills, so let me know what I can do better (or what you already like!).**

**And finally, my goal is to update on Wednesdays.**

**Again, THANK YOU! (especially if you made it through this whole note!)**

**Hope you're enjoying the story and see you next Wednesday!**


	3. In the Dark

NATASHA

The handlebars hum under my palms as I zip through the streets of D.C. Away from the Triskelion, away from those particular ghosts. Air streams over the sleek black body of the bike, drowning out any other noise. Behind the tinted faceplate of my helmet I can finally let my face relax. No mask to wear for these few minutes before I dive head first back into the game. No secrets to keep from the blur of cars on the street. And yet I'm gripping the handlebars tighter with every passing second. Clint. Fury. Steve. Congress. Secrets. Betrayal. Lost. Secrets. Identities. Lost. Clint. Lost. Secrets. CLINT CLINT CLINT. I can't do it. Even behind the shadowed safety of the helmet I can't let it out. I keep my face paralyzed like I always do, a blank slate that I can paint on whenever I need to become someone else. I keep it steady. Because if I let my brow furrow, if I let me eyes narrow and the corners of my lips tweak, and it's real? I'm afraid I won't get it back, not completely. I almost faltered with Fury. I could feel myself tottering on that edge. It's so hard to come back to that place, to bottle your emotions up again once you've let them out. If I uncap the emotional shitstorm I'm trying so hard to swallow right now — I can't. Giving in to the panic I can feel crawling under my skin means I lose focus, it means I lose time, it means I lose Clint.

Because that's the name of the game this week isn't it? Letting out things you'll never get back? It's the hushed moments that are dangerous, the quiet times when the gush of the wind past a motorcycle drowns out all but your mind. When you have time to reflect and think and breath, that's when you become your own threat, unless you know how to shut that part of yourself down.

The battle at the Triskelion was not one of those moments. Not by a long shot. I knew what I was doing when I opened those files. I knew what it meant for Fury and Pierce to stand at the screen and confirm it. I knew it, but at that point I could only imagine how I would feel now. And for the record, I was wrong.

It's all out there. Every dirty secret, every misdeed — let's be serious, they're crimes. Bloody, atrocious crimes — spilled out into the open for everyone who wants to see.

I grip the handlebars even tighter. I need information. Now.

Some people, people who don't have to do it, imagine espionage as an action-packed thrill ride full of gadgets and fistfights. I won't say that's never true. But that's hot war. The lines blur occasionally, soldier and spy, and we use guns and gadgets and martial arts. But what espionage really is, at its heart, is cold warfare. It's a game of information. Whereas a soldier gets his power from having the biggest, newest gun, the spy gets her power from having the biggest, newest secret. First rule of espionage: know more. Know more than everybody else. The more information you know that someone else doesn't, the better off you are. Every single fact that I or S.H.I.E.L.D. knew that could put us at an advantage in now property of the internet.

I need information. Now.

"I only pretend like I know everything."

I said that. Maybe it doesn't sound too flattering, but that's what I do. I learn everything I can and piece together the rest.

But I have no knowledge, I have no piece. It's no longer a puzzle to be solved logically and strategically. All that's left is shooting in the dark.

I almost snort a little laugh. Clint claims he can shoot in the dark. The Triskelion firing range has taken many, many arrows to the concrete since he's been trying to prove it. Oh, Barton.

I can feel it creep up again, the anxiety. Every time I pause from keeping it in check it floods up and I feel like I'm drowning. This is a nightmare, quite literally. I have nothing to work with, no lead to follow. I need to hunt down a place to start. I haven't been here in a very, very long time. It's been quite a while since I've been smothered by square one. I need something to go on, something to work with.

My turn comes up and I bank right, much more sharply than I meant to. I purse my lips as pain flares up my shoulder and radiates through my chest and arm. With my tongue pressed sharply against the roof of my mouth I exhale slowly, steadily. I count to myself as I wait for the pain to dull to a tolerable level, breathing breathing all the while. All you can do is breathe.

I slow, unwillingly, as I turn off the highway. I zip past a few cars; I need to be there yesterday. Tourists buzz around the streets and flow over the sidewalks, walking circles around the monuments and museums. I've always found it to be a very squat city. No skyscrapers, just low, historic buildings that all seem to be made of the same white and gray stone. Various food carts and souvenir stands squeeze between parking meters and rows of trees that spring from the sidewalks. Washington D.C. has the greatest variety of tree species of any city in the world. Did you know that?

But that little fact won't buy me anything. This will.

I punch the gas one last time and screech to a stop two blocks from the library. Yes, the library. This is a personal low point, I'll admit. But I need a computer, one in no way linked to S.H.I.E.L.D.

Speaking of things not linked to S.H.I.E.L.D., I touch my feet to the asphalt, balancing the bike as I pop the kick stand. Second rule of espionage: trust no one. It's a tough way to live, sure, with those seeds of doubt growing behind every relationship, every conversation. Every once in a while, those seeds spout into the need for a motorcycle waiting in the parking lot of a little row house in Georgetown. "Natasha Romanoff" has never heard of this bike and neither has S.H.I.E.L.D. Nor are they away of the wad of cash now concealed in my jacket. Third rule: always have resources. Close by is best.

My thigh muscles burn as I kick my leg over the bike. I step up onto the curb and look back. The black hornet eyes of its headlights stare at me. Its powerful, its sleek, it maneuvers like a dream, but the truth is? I miss my Corvette. I almost smile again. Barton's always going on about cars. Old ones are his thing, 1970s Challenger if I'm remembering right, and I am. I never understood it until Nick gave me my little present after New York. I really miss that car.

But in this business, it's best not to get attached to things, especially nice things. Chances are, they won't last. But the most important thing not to be attached to? Yourself.

Who shall I be today? I take a breath as I slid the dark helmet off. Time to play.

I merge into the throng on the sidewalk. Jacket unzipped, then I take it of and fold it over my arm. Calm and casual. My blouse says "urbanite," my riding jacket says "I can handle myself." Not the impression I'm looking to give. But I was on TV this morning. Not exactly helping. The next thing to go is the hair.

"Sorry" I mumble as I brush past a woman with a long braid, her hair elastic now concealed in my palm. The Black Widow these people know isn't the undo kind of girl, so up it goes, in a scraggly bun, sharp stands sticking out from all sides.

"How much for these?" I ask as I peer into the little mirror of a sunglass vendor.

"For you, Sweet Cheeks? I'll make it twenty."

By the time I've thrown down a few more dollars on a popsicle, I've reached the library. Or someone has. I am no longer the woman who parked that motorcycle. Licking my lips, still sweet and sticky with grape syrup, I climb the steps to the library. The smell of must and books and quiet overtakes me as the revolving door sweeps me inside. Silence hangs heavily over the shelves. It feels like secrets.

Good, because I'm here to find one.

A set of granite stairs swoops up along each side of the foyer, curling over the circulation desk and the mouth of the first floor stacks. I take one, letting my hand run over the cool metal railing. The quieter the better. Just off the second floor landing, I skim the nearest shelf as I case the place. Perfect, a long table of computers that's isolated and barely occupied. I take a seat where no one can see over my shoulder and boot up the monitor. I need to be delicate about this. Too precise and I'll set off alarm bells for digging to far and to fast into S.H.I.E.L.D. intel; to vague and I'll never find what I'm looking for.

For the first time, I'm actually the slightest bit grateful for being an Avenger. Not that I didn't love saving the world; it was a blast. But on some level, my cover was blown two years ago, when I stepped up to fight the Battle of New York. My secrets might not have been public knowledge, but my face was. My name, my suit. Clint's too. I still remember the first time I saw a little girl's patten leather "Black Widow" costume show up around Halloween time that year. I though I was going to be physically ill.

But for once, our extremely unwanted place in the limelight is advantageous. Digging deep into S.H.I.E.L.D.'s dirty laundry, that's suspicious. Browsing dirt on the Avengers? Most of the world is doing that today. The trick is to follow the right links, the threads that will lead "accidentally" where you want to go. Throw in a few red herrings along the way: "Avengers Exclusive: Are Black Widow and Hawkeye Dating?" God I hate those people, but I click on the headlines anyway and try desperately not to read.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. Scandal: Who's to Blame?"

"The Avengers: Helpers of HYDRA?"

And it goes on. But the truth is, the big bang is all most people care about. As if all S.H.I.E.L.D. had to spill was one giant secret, instead of hundreds of millions of tiny ones. There are those who will wade through it, mostly the agents and politicians dealing with the cleanup. For the most part though, people only want the bullet points. Even most of those suits on Capitol Hill had only read a laundry list of my, er, resume. You spill blood in the water and the sharks all come, sure. But as they're all bearing their teeth over the carcass that made the stain, the blood itself is trickling out into the ocean until it's diffused into just more salt water. We released terabytes of S.H.I.E.L.D. data; hopefully the dissection of the Triskelion, of what's on the surface, will buy the rest some time. Maybe a few of the darkest, bloodiest bytes of data will even be lost. I can only hope.

But how to track the blood in the water?

Link after link and I finally come to a website that seems promising. "The Rising Tide." Sounds familiar. I came across that name in a mission brief once or twice. Some hippie hacker group committed to free information. They've practiced cyberterrorism against S.H.I.E.L.D. in the past. I bet they're savoring — and sharing — every drop of blood they can get their hands on. Perfect. That was fast. The contents of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Dataspine all filed and organized. Avengers Initiative = Personnel.

Here we go:

BARTON, CLINTON FRANCIS

AGENT OF S.H.I.E.L.D., LEVEL 8

AVENGER

RECENT ACTIVITIES

FIELD STATUS: INACTIVE PENDING PSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION

UPDATES: NONE

Wait, that's not right. Clint was cleared months ago. And he's certainly not still inactive.

And then it dawns on me just how deep it is, the trouble we're both in. His mission was never S.H.I.E.L.D.-sanctioned. There is no data, no lead, not even in all the information S.H.I.E.L.D. dumped. There is no trail of crumbs, not puzzle follow. I need information; that information doesn't exist. The details of his mission may not be compromised, but everything else about him is. And I have no way to find him.

Suddenly I realize that I'm chewing nervously on one end of my new sunglasses as the frame swings back and forth like a clock across my neck. Tick tock, tick tock. I need information. Breathe. All you can do is breathe. I let the glasses fall to rest, one end between my teeth, the other hanging at my collarbone.

That's when I feel it. A tiny pull at my neck. The soft movement of a silver chain. The almost imperceptible weight of an arrow charm removed from my skin.

Fingering the clasp, I pull the necklace off as fast as I can. With a glance over my shoulder, I hold the little arrow up to the metal rim on the glasses. Tink! The tiny click of a magnet as the charm jumps the last few milliliters and attaches itself to the frame, tip first. A perfect shot.

Clint Barton, what have you done?


	4. Freezer Burn

CLINT

. . .

. . .

. . .

That's an accurate depiction of my thought process as the smoky-voiced woman says the word "HYDRA." My guess is she said it quickly, slicing off that sentence like a sassy knife, her words just dripping with superiority, with victory. I hear it through a fishbowl. H-Y-Y-Y-Y-D-R-A-H. Each time I replay it in my head it gets longer and more distorted, like kids playing with the settings on a Darth Vader voice changer, until that one word's taking up all of everything.

At least a thing makes sense.

Just the one thing. Everything else had been blown this side of yesterday, but this one little thing makes sense. Makes me want to laugh almost, actually.

I slid out of the diner booth, shake glass in hand.

"Did you get ice cream on my floor again Hawk-man?"

I lower my voice. "Bernadette, I've told you, you can't call me that. Seriously, I think it's copyright infringement. Comic book characters and whatnot."

"And you ain't? Running around New York in purple spandex with a bow and arrow trying to be Katniss, and that ain't out of a comic book?"

Why? When did I become a walking reference to _The_ _Hunger Games_? I shook my head.

And, not to be a nudge, but just for the record, so we're totally clear here, I could outshoot that girl any day. Done. Fact. Over.

Anyways . . .

"I'm not any kind of "Hawk-anything."

"Sure you're not Babyface." (Was Hawk-man-dude-guy better than that? Probably.) "Now do you want a piece of pie, or what?"

"What, I didn't . . . Well I mean I always want pie, but actually, this may sound like a weird question but —"

She puts a wrinkled hand on mine, pausing a second before she takes the glass.

"You want it a la mode you're going to have to haul a new tub of vanilla out of the freezer for me. Bernie ain't here to do it, with biceps like that, you seem like just the man for the job.

"Ummm . . . Okaaaaaaay."

"Strawberry rhubarb or triple berry when you get back?"

"Like you have to ask."

So, like the good little Hawk-man-dude-guy-thing that I am, I did what I was told.

"Sup Earl?" I said as I passed through the swinging kitchen doors. Clearly I don't spend a lot of time here. The guy at the wide flat griddle nodded, with a little half-salute of the spatula in his heavily tattooed arm. His lip twitched in what might have been a smile beneath his greasy handlebar mustache.

Wait, surely biker bar over there could lift an industrial size tub of ice cream. I paused for half a second with my hand on the cold stainless handle of the walk-in freezer door. "Am I about to die for pie? Yup. Probably. Either that or . . . ."

"Why do I even get surprised anymore? I've got to say, Nick, this is quite possibly the weirdest —"

"It's not. Trust me," said Nick Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. and general all around badass from his seat on a drum of ice cream at the back of a diner freezer. His breath curled with frost as he spoke. "Took you long enough."

"I'm not getting that pie, am I?"

"You're lucky what you're not getting is an official reprimand for repeated violation of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Nutrition Code. Twenty chocolate milkshakes in the last month alone. Even Stark's better than that."

"In his case you guys might want to start counting alcohol as a food. Might even the score a little."

"And you might want to count this." He handed me a "smoothie" in a bottle with a little bitty S.H.I.E.L.D. logo on the side.

"Uh-uh, no way, I am not drinking Banner juice. I don't care what you claim is in those things, or what you say is not, it's not going to happen."

So much eyebrow. "Banner juice?"

"It's green and it makes me angry."

"You're just trying to push my buttons now, aren't you? You through? Let me take this opportunity to remind you that you are, in fact, an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D."

"No offense, Nick, but it doesn't exactly feel like it anymore."

"You have a mission. Feel like it now?"

"I mean totally. Plus, I didn't think you'd spend all day in a freezer to reprimand my eating habits. Though frankly, I didn't think you'd spend all day in a freezer to do this either. It's cold in here."

"Thirty-five degrees."

"I left my sweatshirt in the booth. I'm just gonna —"

"Sit down Barton."

"Yes Sir."

Fury got up, fingering the bags of frozen whoknowswhat lining the shelves. "Funny thing about this freezer, it's been here since Rogers' day. His original day. Whole building has. And do you know what's in these walls?" He rapped on the wall, and crystals of ice fluttered down to the boxes on the floor.

"Lead and asbestos?"

"Among other things."

"Wait, what?" Ignored.

"There is nothing in these walls. No bugs, no cameras, no wires that transmit anything but good old-fashioned electricity."

"Ok, but there's no way a diner freezer is safer than S.H.I.E.L.D." Fury's face. A shiver ran up my spine. "Unless there's a reason you think it's not. What's going on?"

"Maybe nothing."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't do 'nothing.' "

"I'm going to give you the chance to back out of this Clint. Right now, no questions asked."

"Super-secret 1940s freezer mission? Sure, why not. I'm in."

"Good." Fury pulled a file out from under a bag of peas. "I don't know much. Don't have more than a feeling really. And this. This is a map of the world. And this is a dark spot."

I took the file, squinting at little red marker stuck on the map. "You sure you don't just need a new printer?"

Eyebrow.

"Right, sorry."

"Something is going down. I don't know what, or when, or who or where, but I can feel it. And it's linked to that dot. Just a tiny speck in the Pacific, an island so small nobody knows about it."

"I don't see the connection."

" 'Nobody' includes us. That map represents all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s intel, every pasture and post office we could dig into if we wanted to. That one dot is the only place on the globe that's a dark zone to us. And since we have the most advanced detection technology by a mile, the only thing that could black out that zone —"

" — is S.H.I.E.L.D" I finished. "That's huge. Nick that's . . . that's huge."

"Could be nothing, a software failure, some unintended interference. But until I know that for sure, this stays with me. That's why I need someone . . .off the radar, so to speak, to look into it. Someone so unnoticed that if there is an ulterior motive behind this, they'll never see him coming."

"So I've been benched this whole time for a reason? You've been grooming me for this mission the whole time?"

Eyebrow.

"Wait, no, don't answer that. I can't take the truth."

That lasted all of three seconds.

"You think I'm crazy, don't you? You think my brain's fried just like everybody else. Perfect."

"You know, Barton, I do think you're a little crazy. Unlike 'everybody else,' that doesn't strike me a particularly bad thing to be."

"How do you know I'm not involved in whatever this is?" I'm not proud of the pouty face I made just then. Not proud. "Man don't make that face. I could be a double agent. I could do it!"

"Natasha would have killed you a long time ago. Sometimes it amazes me that she hasn't anyway." He slapped the file into my hand. "Information, what little there is, is in here."

"Yes Sir."

"And Barton, before you go, take a little vacation."

Out of the folder, Fury pulled out the long rectangle, like of a concert ticket. I snatched it, hoping it would be someone good. It was. Literally. I frowned. "The Smithsonian Museum of American History Proudly Presents: Captain America: A Living Legend. Special Exhibit open 4.4.14 − 4.5.15. Jee, Director, I don't know what to say."

"I do. Get to work."

If my ribs weren't on fire and my mouth didn't taste like blood and my head wasn't swimming in a fishbowl of "HYDRA HYDRA HYDRA" I would laugh. See? Get it? Captain America? Because the exhibit covers the origin of HYDRA. He knew. He knew all along. God damn it, Nick Fury knew it all along. It's hilarious in a really dire way. That man will never cease to impress me.

Of course, now I'm really wishing I'd taken the time to go to that exhibit. I could use some intel on these guys, even the read-it-on-a-museum-plaque kind. And the kicker is, I actually went to Washington D.C. before I left on this stupid assignment, but I went on a very different kind of mission. I had to give a certain Spider a little gift.


	5. Identity X

NATASHA

I've heard that somewhere in the dregs of mythology, there's a story about a spirit who wears a thousand faces. Every day he's a new person, one day wearing the head of a fox, the next of the village shaman. But he must keep changing because he has no face of his own. At least I think that's how it goes. I don't remember where I heard it, and I've never bothered to look it up. I think I get the gist.

My reflection blinks in the speckled mirror of the crappy little motel I'm calling base for now. Cool water runs out of the leaky tap and onto my hands. I run my fingers through my sleek straight hair. Some Japanese treatment that took out all my curls. It'll wear off, but not for another few months, or so I'm told. Fury paid the price tag and that's all I really cared about. It was filed as a "covert operations identity alteration," which I suppose it was, but I didn't do it for any particular mission. I just . . . needed too. I needed to change. I needed a new mask, even if I was the only one to see it. Hair is an easy change. I needed those long dark curls when I went undercover at Stark Industries. Then I needed to chop it all off, and then I needed it straight. Now I need it different.

Long for the lawyer, business for the battle, sleek for the spy. But I'm no longer Natalie Rushman, or the Avengers' Black Widow, or Agent Romanoff. Who am I supposed to be now?

Well, at least I was able to find one last temporary answer.

"All my identities were blown. It'll take some time before I can build up a new one." I said that. And I meant it. Mostly. All of my S.H.L.E.I.D. identities are public knowledge, and by now I'd gotten so comfortable that that was all of them. Except this one.

I turn off the faucet and face the musty motel room. It was already dirty, but it's much worse since I hauled in my old lock box. Now . . .

I crouch down, trying not to touch the stained carpet, and brush the drying crumbles of dirt from the lid. The cyrillic letters of the box's manufacturer have almost disappeared into the rust. I run my fingers over them. It was quite some time ago when I buried this, literally and metaphorically. Not in years, so much as in everything else. Back when I first arrived here. I barely knew Clint, I didn't trust S.H.I.E.L.D., and I needed something extra special tucked away. Just in case. I'd almost forgotten about it, or at least I was pretending to. Not absurdly far from the National Mall there's a park. And just past the statue, through a hedge of rhododendrons, there's a gorgeous pink rosebush. It has no significance other than that's where, late one night on the threshold of something new, I buried it, and as soon as the sun set this evening, over the wreckage of that something, I dug it up.

Nothing in here has ever been touched by S.H.I.E.L.D., not the box, or anything in it, courtesy of the Soviet black market and the Washington D.C. underground. S.H.I.E.L.D. was doing a decent job, but even in their own back yard there are ways to get what you want. That said, if the documents in here are damaged, I'm finished. Identities, the good ones, the ones that work, take time. Or money. And even with the cash I'm carrying, I don't have nearly enough for a rush order.

I lay out a plastic trash bag and haul the box up onto my bed. It looks like I'll be sleeping here tonight, especially if the lock is rusted over. Which it appears to be. Great. Flashlight in my teeth and lock picks in my hand, I set to work. By the time I'm through, my shirt is smudged with dirt and my bed is covered in rust flakes. The hypnotic buzz from the adjacent highway has lessened considerably. I check the clock. It's nearly three. Looks like I won't be setting out tonight.

I pause with my hands on the cover. If this doesn't work . . . Screw it. Wasting time won't change anything. I give the lid a nice hard shove and it groans open. There's a little hiss as the seal breaks. I release the breath I was apparently holding as I fish out the documents. Everything's here. Passports, credit cards, birth certificate, insurance information, social security number. And so my favorite question: who am I today?

Arianna Gabrielli, American with a dual citizenship her father's native Italy. Travel photographer, and health mission worker for StarkCorps, the Stark Industries philanthropy branch. In other words, plausible justification to be just about anywhere. I designed her to be the ultimate flexible identity, not tailored to any specific mission, but workable for anything that may come. Which is good, because I still don't know where I'm going. But I am not driving to New York on a motorcycle at three in the morning to find out. If I get a few hours of sleep, maybe my shoulder will hold up during the drive.

I shower and change into the best almost-pajamas I can scrounge up. New York will mean a shopping trip too, once I know what environment I'm headed to. All while I leave my necklace on. I'm not taking it off until I'm in Brooklyn. My fingers crawl up to the little arrow charm and I can feel my shoulders relax each time I confirm that it's there. Ever since the library I've been fighting with myself not to take it of and try the magnet again, to make sure it still works. Or that it even worked in the first place. But it does. I know it does. And once I touch the little charm to the giant map Clint keeps on the wall of his apartment, I'll know exactly where to find him.


	6. Cirque du HYDRA

CLINT

So where were we? Right. HYDRA. H-H-Y-Y-Y-D-R-A-H.

"So," I gasp, "HYDRA. Is that *cough* like *cough* an acronym, or do you guys *wheeze* just spell it in caps for *wheeze* kicks?"

I'm not entirely positive what smashes into my chest, but I'm fairly confident it's a boot.

*Cough*

*Cough*

I guess it's just for kicks.

*Cough* *Cough*

*Cough* *Cough* *Cough* *Cough* *Cough* *Cough* *Cough* *Cough*

Sweet Jesus that burns, but I can't stop. I can't even draw enough air in to scream. Blurry. Blurry, blurry, head swimming, I think I'm gonna pass ou . . . .

Yowza!

That pinch in my arm, it felt like a needle. Well that's a little overkill, don't you think? If they'da just left me coughing I would have punctured a lung or something eventually.

Wait, I'm not coughing anymore. Well I am, but it's slowly subsiding. The muscles in my chest start to loosen and my diaphragm relaxes. I don't resist as my eyes try to flicker open. Whatever they gave me I feel . . . better? Because I wasn't confused enough already.

Brightness as I try to see, but I squint and everything comes fluttering into focus.

And she's hot!

I mean . . . eww, HYDRA, gross, evil, bad.

I look at the floor. Leather halter suit. Heeled boots. Shoulder high gloves. All of it a bright acid green. I gotta tell you, I did not see that one coming. Man, that thing looks even tighter than Natasha's catsuit.

"Look at me!" Sexy Halter snaps, and I do. "If you're quite through."

If I make it out of this, Natasha's going to kill me.

Those long green gloves finger one of the guns in her hip holster. I may not have to worry about making it out of here alive.

She scans the glassy tablet propped in the crook of her elbow. "Infiltrating HYDRA Island, I must say that's a first."

"Wait, HYDRA Island? Seventy years to work on it and that's all you could come up with?"

She pops the magnetic snap on the holster. "Says "Hawk-eye" the "Avenger" working for "Shield." "

"What exactly are you saying?"

"I'm saying it's over. Your mission, your hope, your life, are finished, and lucky me I get to snuff out the pathetic purple flame."

That hurt. Pathetic, possibly. I'd like to think it's a little bit of an exaggeration. But, man, respect the purple. It's a threatening and masculine color. I almost say that last bit out loud, but for once I hold my tongue. Not that I'm not a fan of sass-the-executioner. Actually that's kind of my modus operandi, and it's indirectly led to me not dying several times. Something in this woman's face tells me not to play, something dark.

I glance at the tablet in her hand. I can't really read it, like a newspaper that's too far away, but I know what it says: everything. Everything S.H.I.E.L.D. knows — knew? — about me, which is . . . everything. There's something distinctly threatening about being interrogated by someone who knows where you buy your socks.

I flinch as her long green-gloved fingers touch down on my chest. They crawl up the front of my shirt and she tugs on my ear, pulling her face in next to mine. That sweet smokey voice whispers, "but before I blow your brains out, we're going to play a little game."

Yup, Nat's gonna kill me. Especially because my guard is down. So down it's pretty much nonexistent. In fact, I don't even feel those green gloves on the pressure points of my neck until that gorgeous evil face is fading to black.

Barton, you dummy.

Lack-of-oxygen blackouts feel even worse than concussion blackouts, if you can believe it. The pain is sharp and constant, rather than dull and throbbing. You come to quicker but the haze is stronger. You feel horrible and groggy and like you've been hit by a truck. Or at least I do, but that could be a combination of things.

I wonder where the pretty girl is. I don't smell her. (She smells like gunpowder and pleather. Something sweet too. Vanilla?) In fact what I smell is —

I'm done with this blackout business. I snap my eyes open and I don't care that it's bright or that they sting and are starting to water, because it smells like musty canvas and grease paint and stale popcorn and pee.

We're at the circus.

I try to jolt my arm up, but it won't budge. I'm still tied to the chair. How can this be? I can see it clear as day. I'm under the big top. The seats are empty, and so is the ring; the trapeze hang motionless in the air. Outside I can hear the grumbling hum on the crew at work.

"Smells like home?"

I jump. When did Smoky Voice get in here?

She walks out from behind me, tablet still clutched in her hand.

"Mmm, the Carson Carnival of Traveling Wonders. So this is where the great Hawkeye got his start. I'm glad to see the Avengers have such a strong pedigree. Makes me feel safer already."

I hope she can't see my foot twitching in my boot. It's all I can do to keep everything else still, and keep my heart rate down. This is . . . I'm so . . . What?

"No comment? I thought you'd be happy to see were you grew up one last time. Lot of fond memories I see. Hmm." She paused and tapped the tablet. "And some not so fond ones. You and your brother, young orphans taken under wing by Swordsman and Trickshot. They forged you into the weapon you are today, only to betray your trust. They were thieves, and you caught Swordsman in the act. What's worse, you brother abandoned you for being too weak to join in the scheme."

"Thanks for the play by play of my childhood, but I think I've got the details."

"Hmm," she says, thinking as scrolls her way through my life. "Page after page after page here on your brother. Barney is it?"

"Stay away from him."

"I'd be more concerned about him staying away from you."

"What?" I ask, but then I see it, a figure pushing through the tent flap and striding toward me. He looks like me but taller, with darker hair and a snarl. He's wearing my costume. And his bow is drawn.

Closer, closer. "Barney!" I shout before I can stop myself. This isn't real. This can't be real, and yet —

"Sorry it had to come to this baby bro."

"Barney stop!" I say to the whateverthisis "We've had our difference, but it doesn't have to be this way."

"Doesn't it? You turned your back on me. You abandoned me. Left me for dead in the hands of those criminals."

"You chose that path."

"And you didn't stop me. No, instead you went off and became an Avenger. Little brother Clint on the TV, the mighty Hawkeye saving the world. That could have been me. That could have been _us_. If you hadn't abandoned me, I could have been just like you!" He smiles a wide creepy grin and steadies his aim at my chest. "And now I will be."

"Barney st—"

Twang.

I've never actually been shot before. Not by an arrow anyway.

I think I'm in shock. Everything's numb. There's an arrow-sized ball of nothing where my chest cavity should be. I just stare and stare at my brother. In my costume. With my bow. Then the pain erupts but I continue to stare. I clench my jaw, I ball my fists, I tell myself that's not a tear on my cheek but I'm lying. I want to scream. My breathing slows. It's getting harder . . . and harder . . . to

God damnit.

Clear! Nothing. Again. We need him alive. Charging. Clear! Zzzutt!

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee -ep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Voices swimming around outside my head. My chest stings as they rips something off.

"He's stabilizing."

"Good."

"Even with memories this traumatizing, I suspect he'll survive several more rounds."

"Amazing how far Zola's design has progressed in recent years. Simulated physical trauma. Fascinating. And S.H.I.E.L.D.'s research into virtual reality and complex emotional brain mapping, courtesy of their Jolly Green Giant, was all it took to make the technology one hundred percent effective. Fitting that one of their operatives should be the first successful trial run."

That voice. Not the doctor. The other guy. He sounds German. And important.

"Yes, the first one whose cortex didn't fry as soon as we booted the system. Groundbreaking."

"If his file is any indicator he'll withstand the pain." That's Smokey Voice. "At least long enough for the emotional trauma to take hold."

"Proceed, but use caution Viper. If he dies before we find out who sent him . . ."

Her name is Viper? Sexy. . . . I mean eww HYDRA gross, evil, bad.

When I come too again — man is this getting old — I'm trying desperately to remember something I'm remembering I've forgotten. Voices. German . . . Viper . . . Snakes? Doctor . . . Snake . . . . Snake person . . . Unless I've been cursed by Voldemort, I'm completely at a loss.

This is bad. Not Voldemort, we'll cross that bridge when we get there. I'm exhausted. I'm drained, physically and emotionally. And I can't stop thinking about Barney. I know it didn't happen. I know I didn't get shot — though I feel about that terrible. But . . . but it _could_ have happened. Everything he said was true. I left him. I reformed, turned into a S.H.I.E.L.D. agents and a goddamn superhero and I never looked back. Not enough to make it count.

I expect the woman to come back, but she doesn't. Not right away. Not soon enough. I've rather be beaten up, not that I'm sure I could even stand right now, let alone take a punch or fifty. But . . . Barney. Every time I close my eyes I see him. Each time I push him out of my head he storms back in, and HOLY HAWKEYE WHY DOES IT STILL SMELL LIKE CANVAS?!

I need to get up, to walk around, to leave this all behind. Once I've rested up a little I start pulling, pulling at the wrist restraints. I sat still for so long, just stewing on my brother. I can't. I can't do it anymore. I wrench at the restraints until my wrists are trickling blood, and then the woman (Why do I want to call her Viper? Hey, that's kind of hot.) comes in to inflict some fresh hell on me.

I'm a soldier; I'm an Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. I've seen torture, I've been tortured, I've taken plenty of beatings and I've given them.

And I have no idea what they're doing to me.

But I think it's working.


	7. Arrow Marks the Spot

NATASHA

"I can drive from Washington D.C. to New York City on a motorcycle." I said that. I meant it. And I hate myself for it. My shoulder is so on fire I can feel the burn in my fingertips. My entire body is stiff and sore; my teeth are clenched against the pain. With my muscles wound so tight, I'm honestly not sure how much I'll be able to move when I stop. And I'll stop when I arrive at Clint's building, and not before.

Part of me knows I'm getting a little obsessive-compulsive about this mission. With my new identity tucked safely in my jacket, I could easily have taken a plane, or a bus, or a train to the city. It would have taken the same amount of time, if not less, and my shoulder and everywhere else that took a hit at the Triskelion wouldn't be screaming at me. I know that. I knew that as I sped out of DC, past Union Station, past Reagan National Airport. I know that it's dangerous to let emotions interfere, but I couldn't stand the thought of myself or my ETA being in someone else's hands. Rough as this is — and really, as the whole world now knows, this is a cakewalk compared to most of what I've done over the years — it's immeasurably better than sitting on a plane doing nothing but drumming my fingers and swallowing my nerves. At least I'm doing _something. _At least I have control over this one tiny aspect of my mission, because every hour, every second that goes by hurts a little more. Clint Barton is out there, and chances are, he's running out of time.

So no stopping. The highway curves and my muscles relax the tiniest bit as the Manhattan skyline rises up in the distance. But not too much. Not until I'm there.

By the time I've crossed through Manhattan, my thoughts have been taken over by an entirely different worry. Since S.H.I.E.L.D. fell, I've been clawing for information, and that's about it. Groping in the dark for some secret, some lead to follow. Well now, hopefully, I'm about to get one. I can feel the fear clawing its way into my chest, as much as I try to push it out. I'm starting to get nervous about what I'll find.

So nervous, apparently, that I barely register crossing the Brooklyn Bridge and turning toward Bedford-Stuyvesant. My awareness snaps awake as I leave the highway and wind into the neighborhood. Quincy Street. Here we go.

The parking is full, but I manage to squeeze my bike in behind Clint's Challenger. Something tells me he won't mind. My legs tingle and then burn as I uncurl them. It feels like the aftermath of every beating I took over these past few days has suddenly collapsed on top of me. I reach out instinctively, grabbing on to the handle bars of the bike and bracing myself first against it, then on the trunk of Clint's car as I get my legs back under me. A man walking a dog gives me a questioning look, but other than that the street is quiet.

When I no longer feel like I might fall over, I hobble up to the building and through the front door. The paint is peeling, the walls are chipped, the threadbare carpet is blotched with water stains. Clint's done a lot of good for this place, buying it to keep a gang of thugs away, but it still needs a lot of work. He knows that, and he hates to hear about it. We make it out of this Barton and I'll help you spackle it myself.

I take the squeaking elevator up to the fourth floor and stride down another fixer-upper of a hallway until I reach apartment H. Yes, Hawkeye gave himself apartment H. I rattle my key into the lock and check over my shoulders before I step inside. Habit.

The place is pretty decent sized, brick walls and scratched wood floors. I look around, at the little kitchen and the empty dog bed, then the couch and the living room area. As I've come to expect from Clint, everything that can be purple is purple. He thinks it's totally normal. For the record, none of my furniture has ever been black and red. Even as I rag on him I feel my pulse quicken in my chest. Yes building needs work, the apartment's purple and dusty and smells like dog and dirty socks, but those are only more reasons why I need to get him back. He's so human, human in the funniest, messiest, dorkiest way. He's the only one who reminds me that somewhere deep down I might be funny and messy and dorky too.

Maybe that's selfish. I don't really care. Maybe it's stupid and dangerous to be fidgeting my fingers and clenching my jaw over him. Worry is not my style. But if it'll help push me, help me bring him home, then I really, really don't care.

I walk around the kitchen peninsula, feeling my spirits fall the tiniest bit at the sight of the empty coffee jar. But I forget about it immediately, because here we go. I grab each side of the not-as-subtle-as-he-thinks-they-are purple curtains covering a six foot patch of brick beside the kitchen. The curtain rings whistle as I pull back the cloth, and there it is. Clint's map. A massive map of the world showing the countries in different colors. Notes and newspaper clippings and photographs are tacked on every continent and fill every spare inch of the map's cork board backing. He's added some since the last time I've seen it.

This is not time to get distracted with Clint's laundry list. Since my eye level is only at about Bolivia, I drag over a stool from the kitchen and sit up on my knees. Finally, I allow myself to carefully unclasp the necklace, and I look the little silver arrow over before touching it to the map. Though I already regret saying this, it's a good thing he's so stubborn. I almost didn't take his gift.

When Clint first told me he had a mission, I wasn't convinced the "mission" wasn't the Coney Island Hot Dog Eating Contest. From the earful I'd heard from Fury, competitive eating was about the only thing Clint seemed to be training for. I wasn't helping. After New York things were just . . . crazy. First there was the cleanup after the attack, and then, once the world found out about alien invaders, and, for that matter, superheroes — Tony Stark with his toy is very different from alien gods and gamma monsters. And spies — the missions were nearly non-stop. You think everyone sat quietly by as their known world fell to shambles? Dictators, warlords, arms dealers, pouty tweens in Jersey City, we handled it all. And of course, after New York, S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't the only one looking for superheroes. We were so busy. Barton would have been an asset, but after everything that happened . . . I vouched for him. I did. But not hard enough. I knew he was fine, as much as any of us are. But in some dark corner of myself is carved the phrase "trust no one." And I don't. Mostly. I've always considered Clint exempt. Or I thought I did. Even in those evaluations after New York, after all we've been through, Budapest, Monte Carlo, all of it, part of me held back.

I clasp the little arrow in my fingers. Clint tried to give me this, and I held back. He came all the way down here to see me before he left. Wanted to try some new diner Steve told him about. Just the smell of grease in that place made my stomach churn. Clint loved it. He mumbled something about the mission through mouthfuls of burger. I picked away at my salad and Clint talked until I laughed. Even convinced me to take a sip of his milkshake. I guess he's a connoisseur these days. But he was right. It was delicious. I tried not to let my face show it, but Clint has a way of seeing right through me. It frightens me, but I also think I like it. Would it be so hard to just let him see once in a while? See me smile, see me say "Wow, that shake was really good. Thanks"?

I guess it would be, because when he took my hand across the greasy table and told me he had a gift for me, I said no. He pulled out a little bag, and I said no. He took a velvety black box out of the bag, and I said no. He adjusted the little white ribbon, he told me it was important to him, and I said no. When we parted he wasn't angry, or frustrated, just the tiniest bit sad. Who wouldn't be? I had held back. Again. What on earth was I so afraid of? Right now I'm so overwhelmed with stiffness and fatigue and worry that I don't remember.

But Clint Barton is the stubbornest man I've ever met. We parted ways and I came home to a missing window screen and three arrows poking out of my wall in a perfect diagonal line, waiting for me right as I walked through the door. The top one held the little gift bag by its handles, and inside it the velvet box. The second pierced the envelop of a greeting card, and on the last hung a little silver chain. That little stunt, but the way, is why I'm confident in my ability to spackle a wall.

I took the necklace off carefully. Looking at its little arrow charm I couldn't help but smile. Still, I tucked it back in its box and vowed never to wear it. Then I picked up the phone to scream at Clint for ruining my wall.

A few days later I though of something else I wanted to tell him, and I picked up the phone again. "You have reached Clint Barton, also known as Hawkeye. I'm on a super-secret mission to parts unknown, 'cuz, you know, that's what I do. So, um . . . leave a message? Bye!" Yes, that is what he left on his answering machine.

I look over to the little end table where Clint's big clunky answering machine lives. That red light must have been blinking for months now. For a second I consider erasing the message I left him. No. If he makes it out of this, he deserves to hear it.

That night is when I put on the necklace. As soon as I hung up the phone I practically ran for that little velvet box. I'm used to not being around Clint. One or both of us is half a world away at any given moment. That has never bothered me, and I see no reason why it should. But realizing that he would be not just gone, but invisible, deniable, and radio-silent for who knows how long? It made me feel something I often feel, but has never to my memory bothered me the way it did that night: lonely. I ran for the necklace, cursing Clint for tuning me soft, but so grateful that he's enough of an ass to get it to me anyway. I've barely taken it off since. Until now.

I hold the arrow by it's little metal feathers and bite the inside of my lip. No more holding back. I run the point slowly over the map, most probable locations first. I start with a tight grid over North America, then Europe, the Middle East, South America, and every other continent and hotspot. Nothing. I know this'll work, but I'm getting the tiniest bit nervous as I run out of landmasses. Looks like I'm going swimming. My arm is getting tired as I grid back and forth over the ocean, starting up by Alaska. The farther I go, the more often I eye the opposite edge of the map. What was plan b again?

Finally, as I pass over the dizzying blue expanse of the Pacific, the arrow gives a little tug. I release it, and it clatters to a specific point, standing straight up and pointing at what to me, on this map, simply looks like ocean. But I know it isn't. Because I'm done holding back. Because I trust him.

Hold on, Barton, please. I'm on my way.


End file.
